


But I Will Hold (As Long As You Like)

by Scarecrowqueen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Death, Creepy, Ghosts, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mild Gore, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Circumstances had not allowed him time to address his failures as both King and friend to the Hobbit that had been as stalwart and courageous as any dwarf who’d ever stood by him.  Without the chance to speak his apologies to the burglar in life, Thorin had settled for carving them into the casket itself; the Khuzdul runes pressing forever into Bilbo’s small back as if to write his penitence onto the Hobbit’s very bones in death.  It feels like a hopeless gesture, however sincere it had been; after all, what use at all were words carved in stone to the dead?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Bilbo dies in the Battle of Five Armies. The Durin's live. All the regret in the world won't keep the dead resting peacefully though, as Thorin is soon to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I Will Hold (As Long As You Like)

**Author's Note:**

> Diving headfirst into a new fandom, don't be afraid to let me know how I did! Also, I love a good ghost story, don't you?

So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light  
Cause oh they gave me such a fright  
But I will hold as long as you like  
Just promise me we'll be alright  
\- Mumford and Sons “Ghosts That We Knew”

When Thorin was young; only barely more than a child and with the wide-eyed innocence of youth still upon him, his father had taken him hunting into the forests at the foot of their mountain. Thrain was not usually responsible for leading hunting parties, but this one was a collaboration between the royal houses of Erebor and Dale, and was almost more a ceremonial event then a true hunt; a chance for the kings and their heirs to meet and mingle. Not that there was not a hunt to be had, mind. Thorin recalls with startling clarity how the company had tracked a beautiful stag long through the woods, carefully routing it and cornering it until the eldest prince of Dale had let fly a single, solitary arrow. It had been autumn then, shortly after Durin’s day and the snow’s had come early, but not harshly. The world beneath their feet had been dusted a brilliant, pure white overnight, and while it had made for a chilly ride, it had fascinated young Thorin, who was unused to the weather patterns above the mountain, as his trips outside of their Kingdom at his tender age were few and far between.

It was that ethereal whiteness that made the shock of blood so sudden and repugnant to him. The arrow had struck true, but the aim had been such that the creature did not perish immediately. It had bolted, leaving a trail of vibrant crimson splashes in its wake, and the company and roared their triumph as they had pursued the dying animal deeper into the woods. Thorin remembers their elation as clearly as he remembers his own horror. Until then, food was something prepared out of sight in a kitchen and carried to a table before him; already properly cooked and seasoned. Never before had he an inkling of what had to come before the in order for that meat graced his plate. Never had the Prince under the Mountain tasted death in the air, as he had that day. His father had not understood why he’d gone off venison almost entirely for three whole moons after that, only eating it again under duress because, lacking a proper excuse for his behaviour he had admitted to his weakness of heart and had been trounced thoroughly by his father and King. After that, when bade to eat he capitulated; he was compelled to give up his foolish and childish sentiments in favour of portraying the strength and solemnity of a future King. Thorin had begrudged his father that small act until the man’s dying day; until grief had wiped most of the bitterness from his heart. 

Despite the long years past between then and now however; time smudging away the details of the company’s faces, the exact shade of blue of the sky that day, even the length of time that the stag had been chased for, Thorin had never once forgot the sound the injured and dying creature had made when the arrow had first pierced it’s skin. A shrill, high animal sound that Thorin could not describe in proper terms nor ever hope to recreate, it had lurked in his dreams and rung in the back of his mind since that day, all these many decades since. It was a sound of pure anguish; the noise of tragedy personified in one single, hiccupping bleat.

It was the sound Thorin’s heart made just once; over a century and a half later as Oin carefully pulled the bloodstained sheet up over their burglar’s face; the Hobbit’s usually pleasant features slackened, empty and unfamiliar death.

 

The funeral rites are simple and intimate, attendance limited only to the company and Gandalf as Bilbo would have wanted. The memorial they build for the Hobbit is on a hillside a short distance away, sheltered in the lee beneath a rocky overhang to protect from the elements, but near enough to where the greenery should grow when the desolation heals that Thorin hopes it will please their burglar. It was built with their own hands; each of them working the patterns of their grief and the marks of their esteem into the construction as was tradition; all great heroes were sent off from this world cradled in the finest final gesture their loved ones could provide. It was folly perhaps, to assume that he himself was included among those beloved of their burglar, but seeing as he’d been struck down not feet away from Thorin while frantically trying to protect his undefended flank from an attacking Orc, Thorin feels that perhaps his hope is not unfounded. Circumstances had not allowed him time to address his failures as both King and friend to the Hobbit that had been as stalwart and courageous as any dwarf who’d ever stood by him. Without the chance to speak his apologies to the burglar in life, Thorin had settled for carving them into the casket itself; the Khuzdul runes pressing forever into Bilbo’s small back as if to write his penitence onto the Hobbit’s very bones in death. It feels like a hopeless gesture, however sincere it had been; after all, what use at all were words carved in stone to the dead? Thorin wishes he could take it all back; unmake their final confrontation and face his lost burglar with clear eyes unclouded by gold sickness and greed, but wishes are things for children, and Thorin has not been a child in too many years to count now. Instead, the word he should have spoken sit bitter and silent on the back of his tongue, forever waiting for the ears that could never again hear them.

 

As it is wont to do however, time marches on and life beneath the mountain with it. Thorin sinks into his role of king, bearing his crown and title with all the pride of the generations gone before him. Slowly the days bleed together in him memory; becoming one long endless stretch of duties and responsibilities and before Thorin realizes it a season has passed by him, and winter is warming into spring aboveground. Below ground, Thorin has barely taken time and space to breathe, the shadow of his Kingdom falling heavily upon him. There is so much yet to be done to prepare for the last of the convoys from the Blue Mountains, to ensure his people settled and properly cared for, to establish trade agreements and treaties with their neighbours, and the lists go but ever on. So when it starts, quietly and unobtrusively, Thorin perhaps might not be blamed for not having noticed immediately.

The first time, Thorin sets down his quill one day, having been hunched over the writing desk in his chambers for far too long, setting his name to paper for all manner of decrees and documents. Had he known that taking the crown meant this much drudgery, he might’ve been convinced to leave the mountain to the dragon! Alas, Kingdoms do not run themselves, and someone had to review the merchant’s guild’s request for tariff increases. Feeling bowed down by the heavy weight of the crown, despite having removed the physical object many candle marks ago, Thorin had sighed, stretching and standing to see to the demands of his insistent bladder. He returned only moments later to find his quill and ink missing. Thorin recalled blinking slowly in surprise, before checking the floor, in case he’d managed to knock them off the desk carelessly. Late night had long since passed into very early morning, judging by the shortness of the candles, and it was possible that he was more fatigued than expected and had erred in a fit of clumsiness. A quick search failed to produce the items, and so he’d sent himself to bed; troubled but convinced that the lateness of the hour was to blame.

Indeed, when he’d awoken to find the quill and inkpot laid out neatly on his bedside table, he was justified in putting the oddness off as mere overtiredness getting the best of him. No dwarf was a mountain unto his own, Balin was always telling him whenever he caught Thorin overworking himself, or skipping meals or sleep in the hopes of wading through one more treatise or request for funds or audience or whatever else was on the seemingly endless reams of paper that came to him now. He’d been pushed by both Balin, Dis and Fili to delegate more; perhaps even allowed his heir freer reign over some of the minor responsibilities in order to lighten his workload, but while Thorin could see the wisdom in allowing Fili and perhaps even Kili more hands-on experience in the running of a Kingdom, the small, cold part of him that forever felt unworthy clenched tight in fear at the very thought. After all the years of sacrifice, not the least of which being Bilbo’s very life, Thorin refused to allow himself to be caught pawning off his responsibilities on others as if he was too proud to do the hard work himself. 

Perhaps Thorin would make his way out to visit the burglar’s tomb in the next couple days. Seeing the unforgiving stone and reminiscing on the small creature honored within usually shored up his flagging spirit in ways nothing else could. After all, if a simple Hobbit of the Shire could leave home, travel in a company of Dwarves and fight against Orcs and Wargs and Spiders and Trolls and Goblins alike, then this old, tired Dwarrow could stand strong as King for just a little bit longer.

He owed Bilbo his throne after all, and Thorin would never allow himself to forget it.

 

The second time is slightly more ominous, but in his stubbornness and exhaustion Thorin once again denies any strangeness beyond his own tired imaginings. Thorin is running a bath in the marvel that is the black obsidian bathroom attached to his chambers. Dwarfish plumbing was truly ingenious, delivering piping hot water almost immediately at the twist of a tap, and when his punishing schedule permitted Thorin would allow himself the privilege of a good, long soak to loosen muscles stiffened by hours of hunching over a writing desk, or sitting tall and rigid on a granite throne. Let it be known that as intimidating and regal as the throne was, it was not designed for comfort. After all, a throne too comfortable would encourage the residing monarch to relax during audiences, which was when a King needed to be most attentive, and not tempted to doze. Still, at the end of the day he couldn’t say that he wasn’t grateful to be able to free himself from the throne’s stony clutches and escape to his private chambers for a nice hot both.

Tonight was one such night, court having ended early for once, and as he settled himself into the almost scalding hot water, his moan of satisfaction echoed around the room almost indecently. He squished himself down a bit in the wide tub until he’d achieved optimal submersion; meaning the water was up to his chin; dampening his slowly re-growing beard, but his knees were not left to stick out like to pale little islands. Dwarfish tubs were deep but often short, and as a taller Dwarrow Thorin often encountered the issue with exposed knees, unless utilizing a tub meant for Men. This tub was nearly perfect though, and a few minutes of idle soaking, Thorin set about his ablutions with much gusto. His long thick hair in particular took much time and effort to wash properly. It was a task he took too with gladness; his hair was considered one of his more attractive features, even braided as simply as he preferred, although by right as King his braids should have been elaborate, and decorated with the finest of baubles. Instead, he proffered the simpler twin braids of the Durin royal line, held by the simple beads his nephews had made for him as gifts; offerings from their first solo attempts at the forge. Although their efforts had been sincere and the silver was bright, they were childish, flawed and imperfect with the telling signs of unskilled smiths. Thorin had worn them with pride since the moment they’d been presented however, and he refused to have them replaced, even when his sister-sons had offered, partly in embarrassment at their youthful efforts being to publicly displayed, to create him new ones. While Thorin would accept any gift Fili and Kili saw fit to give him, he would forever hold these first two beads as sacrosanct; the first thing his nephews had ever forged, and gifted to him in love and respect, they were as good as priceless and could never be simply replaced. So when he exits the bath; pulling the plug to drain the tub and wrapping himself in the yards of heavy cotton left for drying, he feels a stab of cold dread shoot through him when he realizes they are not wear he had left them on the sideboard where they always rested, along with his favorite heavy silver ring, which had been a gift from his brother Frerin in a similar circumstance before his untimely death.

His dearest treasures lost to him, Thorin drops to his knees, rooting through the clothing left piled on the floor, lest they’d fallen into the discarded fabric while he’d disrobed. When that search turns up fruitless, Thorin turns his attentions to the rest of the bathing room floor, creeping on hands and knees over every inch. He is aware that any observer would have found him ridiculous; a King crawling around in his towels, wet and panicked over old silver jewelry, but the terror in his heart at the thought of their loss is very real and immediate. When the bathing room has been searched completely and the missing items not recovered, Thorin shoots to his feet and strides into his chambers proper; ready to summon the guards, for surely a thief must have been lurking about his rooms while he’d bathed... And there on his pillow a glint of silver catches him from the corner of his gaze. The ring and beads glow slightly in the light from the wall sconces as they always do; worn and dinged and no longer polished to a high gloss, they are no less radiant to Thorin’s eyes then the day they’d been given to him new. He reaches one slightly trembling hand out, taking them all into his palm, only to realize that they were damp, drops of water clinging to the metal like dew. Thorin wants to assume it’s from his own touch, but his hands were long dried both by handling the towels and my scrabbling about on the stone floor, searching by feel in case his eyes had failed him. He frowns, and lays a hand on his pillow, only to discover the down-filled object is soaked through; so wet in fact that the water was leaking into his mattress, and the excess was running in rivulets down the sheets to pool on the floor by his feet. To his dismay, he finds himself standing barefoot in a rapidly-growing puddle, one too large to be caused by the water still dripping off his body and hair. Stepping back alarmed, Thorin regards his bed with absolute consternation; for all intents and purposes it appears that the pillow had gone for a bath with him, and then been tossed carelessly back into its rightful spot, the jewellery left on top as if to taunt him.

Thorin speaks to the guards on duty later after he dresses, but both swear that none had set foot into his chambers save for himself that evening. They look wary of him when he presses the line of questioning, so he relents. He’d have suspected a prank by his nephews, but while they were more than willing to see their earliest efforts at the forge be replaced by something more respectful, they both knew far better than to touch Frerin’s ring. Also, they had been in lessons with Balin that evening, and Thorin had been able to ascertain through a casual conversation with his old friend that at the time of the incident, they’d been learning about the history of the original trade agreements created between Erebor and the Men of Dale, and while they’d certainly been bored, they’d been nowhere near Thorin’s chambers. It took a few days of suspicion and denial, but Thorin had finally been able to convince himself that he’d must’ve left the beads and ring there himself while undressing, and the in a moment of frantic and exhausted confusion and soaked the bed himself, still being wet from his bath. A fortnight later he’d almost forgotten the incident entirely, and was more than ready to accept his own implausible explanation of events in favour of putting the mystery to bed and focussing his attentions back where they belonged; on his growing Kingdom and the ruling thereof.

 

The third time, Thorin is forced to admit that there is something unnatural occurring in his presence. Yet another late night hunched over his desk, and Thorin can’t remember when the last time was that he was in bed at the proper hour, nor the last time that he’d been allowed to sleep past dawn. The long days were taking their toll on him, if he deigned to be honest with himself, but what other choice was there? The workload of a King would not wait for the weakness of one Dwarrow. Thorin had read the same line at least five times, struggling to get his sluggish mind to wrap around the text, his eyelids drooping and threatening to fall shut entirely. He thinks briefly about his bed across the room, but important documents must be read sooner rather than later, so he presses on, stopping long enough to rub at reddened, tired eyes, leaning far backward into his chair to feel the clenched muscles of his back stretch with a groan. He pulls his hands away to return to his reading when the candle beside him on the desk snuffs abruptly, as if blown out by and invisible mouth. There is a second candle on the bedside table four strides away but it has burnt down to nothing but a puddle of wax many hours ago, meaning the room is left in pitch blackness. Although Dwarves have excellent vision in low light, in total dark they are as blind as any other save Orcs, so it’s no surprise that Thorin manages to stick his fingers into the still-hot wax while reaching to draw the candle closer for re-lighting. The heat doesn’t bother his fingertips; burnt innumerable times at a hot forge as they are, but the thick wax does make for an awkward grip on the box of matches as Thorin fumbles it open. The first couple strikes fail, the match sliding in fingers made awkward by their waxy coating, but the third takes, the match head flaring bright sending the sharp scent of phosphorous and new fire into the air. As the flame flares however, the first brilliant spark casts the face beyond the candle into sharp illumination; Bilbo, as solemn and intent as Thorin has ever seen him, staring silent and full of gravitas at Thorin from naught but three feet away. His face is filthy as it was at the moment of his death, smeared with mud and flecked by the heavy stain of blood splattered across his face almost casually from the wound on the side of his head where the Orc mace had struck; the large weapon caving the side of the Hobbit’s head clean in from temple to crown, bits of white skull mixing with grey brain matter to make a lumpy, bloody, and soupy mess where his left ear should have been.

Thorin yelps; a high, unmanly squawk of surprise at the vision, and the match falls from fingers numbed by shock and flickers out halfway to the floor. In the sudden suffocating darkness Thorin can clearly hear the steady dripping of the Hobbit’s lifeblood as it falls to the floor, even over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His fingers feel like stubborn, fat sausages as the wrestles the box of matches open again, clumsily striking again and again, his own onslaught of disbelief and panic making his head spin and his blood rush dizzily in his veins until the second match takes light. The tiny fire bursts into being; spreading its light into a small circle of illumination around him, but the spectre is gone, faded into nothing more than the overtired imaginings of a guilty conscience.

Heart still hammering, it takes Thorin a moment to realize that there is an identical beating on the door; the night guards having been roused by his outcry. With shaking hands, Thorin lights the candle and bears it to his chamber door, assuring the frantic guards that he was fine, and had merely caught his shin against the edge of the desk in the dim light as he’d risen to retire for the evening. The guards accept his chagrined explanation with all suitable grace; after all, everyone knows that shins are often useful for finding sharp-edged furniture in the dark. They bid their lord and King good night, and Thorin returns to bed, climbing in fully clothed as the vulnerability of nakedness is unwelcome in the uncertain night in which he dwells. He yanks the heavy furs and thickly woven quilts straight up to his chin, and then, just for good measure, clean over his head. He’s alone, and there is no one to witness the folly of his unease, just as there is no one to comment on the candle left burning on the bedside table. Come morning, it has joined its neighbour as nothing but a melted husk, sticking its engraved silver holder to the wood of the table in a pool of hardened white wax. Thorin asks his servant to scrape them off, and requests that extra candles be brought to his chambers; ostensibly to continue lighting his late-night work sessions, for which he is slowly becoming renowned. Truthfully however, Thorin will never admit he fears what might be lurking in the edges of the darkness, at the moment the lights go out.

 

As if he is satisfied now that he has Thorin’s attention, the revenant of the burglar comes to visit more frequently after that, and no longer relegated to the after-dark hours as he had been. Thorin catches glimpses of him from the corner of his eyes as he dresses in the morning, as he takes his supper at his desk, as he tucks himself into bed. Always his erstwhile friend has the same despondent expression, always the same intense desperation and quiet longing in his eyes, but for what Thorin does not know. Thorin’s things walk about on him regularly now, objects and items once at hand disappearing within seconds, only to turn up across the room, or beneath his bed, or once in the case of his favorite boots, hidden in his privy even. Thorin curses at his moveable belongings, and flinches whenever he sees Bilbo’s face, although it’s never for longer than the briefest of instants, and tries quietly to discern whether he is in fact experiencing a haunting, or whether he is just lowly losing his mind. Once, Thorin would have insisted that the ghost was real; Dwarrows were a superstitious enough bunch, and while they all returned to their maker at the time of death, who’s to say what happened to the souls of Men or Elves or Hobbits? After his brush with goldsickness though, Thorin knows the frailties of his own mind better than ever and in his darkest moments over the next few months, he believes that the madness is his own, brought about by his guilt and regret. He tries to talk to the spectre, just once, but Bilbo never lingers for more than an instant and never replies, only appears in the corner, or at Thorin’s bedside, or next to his desk before vanishing again, his expression as puzzling as ever. He finds himself talking anyways to the emptiness of his room late at night, in a tone quiet enough not to rouse the guards. More than anything, he missed this; in Mirkwood in the depths of Thranduil’s dungeons, Thorin and Bilbo had grown close, whispering in the dark of anything and everything to keep their minds off of their troubles, always hesitant and possessed by the fear of being caught. Thorin was after all very used to speaking to an invisible Hobbit in the blackness, and took to that habit still, despite his companion’s eerie and complete silence. Whether he was taken by madness or not, Thorin rationalized that it needn’t matter; here he could speak his mind to his friend, make his apologies heard. So, he talks to the air, to the dark, alone in his room, spilling his heart and mind to the burglar’s remaining ear, wondering all the while whether his friend hears or if he’s just indulging his own descent. 

Time passes, and over the months Bilbo appears more frequently and stays longer, as a result. Thorin has caught him lingering in the back of the throne room during open court, lurking in the council chambers during meetings, even loitering in the dining hall during an official dinner with the delegation from Mirkwood, there to renew the new trade agreements. It sticks in Thorin’s craw that they are reduced to depending on their trade with the ElvenKing; old hurt and bitterness sitting in the back of his throat like a mouthful of salt, but as Thranduil perches tall and prim in his seat, managing to look regal while appearing as bored and dismissive of everything as ever, Thorin will only have to look off to his left to see the small figure propping up a wall in the far corner, invisible and intangible to all but Thorin himself. It unsettled Thorin sometimes, knowing that the Hobbit always appears as he did at the moment of death, and not cleaned and dressed and repaired as best as possible by loving hands for his burial. The head wound is ugly and still raw, as fresh as the day it was made; still dripping blood sluggishly onto the shoulder of the jacket Bilbo had been given in Laketown, little dots of red decorating the floor wherever he’d stood even after he’d disappeared, although no one but Thorin ever appeared to notice. The familiarity of his face could never be anything but soothing to Thorin however, as long as he ignores the gore, ignores the split lip that Thorin himself had gifted him in the depths of his goldsickness, ignored that haunting look in his eyes. Bilbo followed him most days now, nearly everywhere Thorin went the ghost could be found waiting, watching, always silent and pleading. Thorin didn’t know what he was being asked for, what he had to give to this remnant of former faith and loyalty, but he took comfort regardless in the presence of his friend, even if no one else could see him, no one else knew he was there.

Thorin knew Kili and Fili were worried about his behavior over the past while, and Dis too. They had their suspicions that something was awry, although Thorin supposed they suspected more that he was working too hard and not resting or eating enough as he should be, which while not an invalid concern was definitely not the whole of it. It was ludicrous that they’d suspect he was being haunted however, which sets his paranoid mind partially at rest. He’d grown selfish over the months, hoarding the knowledge of Bilbo’s visits to himself at all costs; blaming his growing distraction on a myriad of other things. Perhaps they had suspected the goldsickness returned at first, but Thorin knew that would have been struck from their minds swiftly when it became apparent that he ventured nowhere near the treasury. In fact, Thorin didn’t go far at all these days; to the dining hall when he was coaxed into eating, to the council chambers or the throne room as his duties dictated, or to his chambers at night. Thorin wondered aloud once to Bilbo, sulking at the foot of his bed mute and still as ever, that he’d long since lost track of his days; of when his life had slipped into this dull, endless routine. Wake up, run the Kingdom, crawl into bed to murmur to a ghost unless exhaustion dragged him to sleep, then repeat. He saw little of his family, as preoccupied with their roles as they all were, and less of his friends.

Never had he thought he’d miss those nights on the road so much! Nights when they were often hungry, possibly cold or wet, with the weight of the Lonely Mountain and the dragon beneath it pressing down on their shoulders. Even then, they still had the energy and mood to laugh, to sing, to joke and make merry, celebrating life although every day may have been their last. Now, Thorin does not even recall when the last time he’d spoken to Dwalin or Balin about anything that wasn’t King’s business; and when the last time was that he’d shared a meal with Bofur or Bombur or Bifur even? What was Dori doing these days; was he still keeping Nori in line, and was Ori still working in the great library? Gloin’s family had come to join him on one of the first caravans from Ered Luin years ago, and Thorin had yet to be properly introduced to his wife and son. Was Oin still well, arguing with his brother and playing up his deafness whenever convenient? Thorin hadn’t seen his friends in far too long he realized, turning their beloved faces over in his mind’s eye. Save for Bilbo, of course; Bilbo, who never said a word but listened to the weight of the Kingship upon Thorin’s shoulders, sharing the burden in absolute silence with the pale, battered face of a corpse. Bilbo was the ground beneath his feet these days, as steady and solid as any mountain when Thorin felt himself slipping, like the days he caught sight of himself in the polished sheet of silver he used as a mirror and realized that he’d become nearly gaunt; too many late nights and early mornings and skipped meals carving him into a new animal he wasn’t entirely sure he recognized.

That thought had scared and flustered him, encouraging him to seek out his nephews for the first time in months, hoping for their happy, comforting presence. What he found, while still bright and cheerful, were two dwarves tempered by steel, blood and the responsibilities of Princes. Fili and Kili had grown up at some point, and Thorin recalls with a jolt that a nearly a decade has passed since they’d returned to their mountain. While pride and love war in his breast when he gazes upon them, the conversation is stilted, and ends early when both are called to other duties, leaving him behind. Their broad shoulders are as strong as any good Dwarrow’s should be, and Thorin comes to the creeping realization that at some point, though he’d missed it, the children he’d loved had become men worthy of being Kings in their own right. Thrown by the suddenness of his discoveries, Thorin sits alone in his chambers that evening, ignoring even Bilbo’s presence, knowing that his family is more concerned for him and his withdrawal than ever. At some point, Thorin thinks with dawning horror, he’d become a ghost himself, hadn’t he? Moving in the same patterns, playing out the same routine like one would in life, going through every motion with absolute precision, but he hadn’t truly lived in a long, long time. Thorin is as dead as the haunt in the corner is, even as his heart still beats and his lungs draw air.

“At what moment did I become superfluous?” Thorin asks his beloved ghost. “At what second, what minute, what hour did I cease to live, and started to simply exist; to walk through his world as hollow as you?” Thorin lets out a sharp bark of laughter, but it is not a happy sound; more like a funeral dirge for what little of his heart he had left, having mortgaged it slowly over the years to duty, to the crown, to the mountain itself and all for naught when all he received in exchange was this strange solitude; just himself and his personal wraith alone in a room.

Bilbo does not answer, but for the first time, he moves closer. He’s never moved before, always just disappearing and reappearing where he wanted or needed to be; in fact he’s never so much as twitched in all the years he’s been Thorin’s invisible companion. He’d just stood there, staring and bleeding and looking for the entire world like a lost, forgotten thing; and for the first time Thorin recognizes the look in his friend’s eyes as loneliness, the same loneliness that has been quietly eating him alive for so long he’d stopped even taking note of it. Thorin closes his eyes as soon as Bilbo’s close enough that he can see the faint definition of freckles on his nose, obscured by the blood though they are. Thorin feels more than hears the footsteps, the ever-dripping sound of blood on stone coming closer toward him still. There is a pause then, like the world holding its breath before the coming storm, and Thorin knows that now is that chance, now he can choose to act or choose to wait, to accept what he knows is coming. It’s not a choice though, not really, because Thorin already knows in his heart that his time has been borrowed for far too long, and that a debt he’s long since owed has now come due. He wants to be angry, to be upset or to grieve and bemoan his fate, but instead he feels only the blessed lightness of relief. The hand on his shoulder is as solid as any living hand could be, and the lips on his forehead are petal-soft and ice-cold, a benediction in the darkness behind his eyelids. Thorin does not need to open his eyes to know that in the room around him, all the candles and torches have simultaneously snuffed out, until both darkness within and without match and are equal thus. 

 

It is the guards who discover the body the next morning, lying down in bed as if merely sleeping. Oin inspects him determinedly for foul play, but every sign points to natural causes; a Dwarrow who after a hard life of suffering and a decade plagued by the weight of a heavy crown, had simply lain down never to rise again. Only Fili and Kili can see the bloody footprints facing the bed, of a size and shape they’ve only seen once before on a long-dead friend, and the matching bloody lip print on their uncle’s forehead. Fili tried surreptitiously to wipe it away when they were left to tend to the body, but it never smeared or faded, staying like a brand that even their own mother could not see. The brother’s both swore then they’d never speak of it, and if after his coronation and Thorin’s funeral, King Fili ordered the previous King’s old chambers to be sealed up and forgotten, most assumed it was the actions of a young man grieving the passing of a beloved Uncle. Curiously enough though the order stayed true, even after Fili passed the crown to his son, and to his son again after that; Thorin Oakenshield’s chambers remaining empty and obsolete through the generations as Erebor returned to greatness in the wake of the War of the Ring and the man who’d once lived and died in them passed himself into naught but legend.

And if sometimes both servants and royals alike walking past those long-ignored doors happened to hear the sounds of whispered conversations and soft, but heartfelt laughter from behind the heavy steel-barred oak, well no one need speak of such ridiculous nonsense as ghosts! After all, everyone knows that the souls of Dwarrows return to Mahal after death; and what power could possibly be strong enough to make a spirit or two wish to linger in the mortal realm?

 

“In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.”  
― Laurie Halse Anderson

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to my Dreamwidth and Fanfiction.net


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